


just let me be in your life (like that)

by juulies (nnegan13)



Series: JaTP Appreciation Week 2020 [1]
Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Aged up characters, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Background Alex/Willie - Freeform, F/M, Luke being an absolute simp even tho they haven't met yet, Swearing, but not for any nefarious reasons, lmao they just needed to both Not be students
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27361075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nnegan13/pseuds/juulies
Summary: He can’t help his sharp inhale and the way he’s staring at her like an absolute buffoon, but she’s smiling at him and he’s holding up the people lining up behind him, standing dumbly with his hand right next to his ear, holding his earbud, so he gathers the warm and antsy feeling in his chest and the way the corners of her eyes crinkle and forces himself to move. As he passes by, she reaches up and tucks some of her hair behind her ear.There’s a small black heart drawn on the side of her wrist.Fuck.Fuck.He makes it to his seat as the bus starts moving again and sits with his bag on his lap for almost five whole minutes, staring at nothing and hearing nothing even as John Mayer keeps singing and singing. Both her smile and that tiny little heart blur in his vision and his head swims. That can’t have actuallyhappened. Because if it did…He flicks down the bracelet on his wrist and twists his arm around to stare at the writing that’s been there for the past few days: a tiny black heart.~~JaTP Appreciation Week 2020, Day 2 - Write an AU
Relationships: Julie Molina/Luke Patterson
Series: JaTP Appreciation Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998541
Comments: 20
Kudos: 190





	just let me be in your life (like that)

**Author's Note:**

> i love soulmate aus but i can never decide which kind is my favorite so i decided to combine them all. congrats 2 u! 
> 
> thank u to [paige](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyBanshee/pseuds/SleepyBanshee) and [steph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisdomofme) for looking over this for me! you guys are the mvps really <3333
> 
> fic title from "west side" by ariana grande

Luke is almost a hundred percent sure that the girl he sees every morning on the bus is his soulmate.

He has no reasons to support this theory. They’ve never spoken to one another, he’s never caught a glimpse of her words, he doesn’t even think she knows he exists. And since they’ve never met, he doesn’t have any of the other nifty soulmate magics to help him figure out if they actually _are_ soulmates.

Most people have “hey” written somewhere on their bodies and there’s no indication of when soulmates meet—no magic tingling, no color-changing ink—so there’s other magics to help people work things out. Like, Alex and Willie can talk to each other in their heads. His parents can always pinpoint each other’s locations. His grandparents had matching birthmarks. Most people get one or two soulmate magics beyond the words—the most Luke has heard of is five.

As far as he knows, he has _zero_.

His words, tattooed nicely between two of his ribs in black ink, say _yeah, they’re right over here_. Given how often he’s heard those words—asking for help in a store, looking for his friends, saying them _himself_ (there are documented cases of people being their own soulmates, it’s just really fucking rare)—he’s not too happy with having words that aren’t super common. Alex complains every time Luke brings it up because both he and Willie have little _hey_ ’s written on the back of their wrists and it took them three years to figure out they were soulmates.

“That’s just because it took you guys ages to meet again,” Luke says, and raises his eyebrows at both of them. They’re bickering over it all, again, ‘cause Luke has to leave to go deal with Covington in ten minutes and that means seeing the girl on the bus on his way to work and he might’ve had a miniature freak out over dying alone ‘cause he’s too hung up on this stranger to be any good for his soulmate. “You have the gnarly bruise thing and the voices-in-each-other’s-heads. Not my fault _you_ —Alex—are the most anxious person I know.”

“Fuck you,” Alex says even as Willie hooks his chin over Alex’s shoulder. “You can’t bring up the extra stuff and complain that you don’t have any when I’ve _seen_ the writing that isn’t yours on your skin.”

Okay, so maybe he has _one_ soulmate magic—but that just makes him more antsy about the whole thing. Somewhere out there is someone he’s run into—that’s all it takes for the extra magic, being in the same area as your soulmate, not even _talking_ to them—who’s _made_ for him, or something like that, and he has to find them _again_.

Needle in a fucking haystack, much? 

“Besides that, aren’t you sure about that one girl?” Alex asks. “Maybe you’ve got a second magic that tells you who your soulmate is.”

“No, _no_ ,” Luke insists, no matter how much he wants it to be true—she is, after all, one of the prettiest people he’s ever seen—she’s still a complete stranger. All he knows is that the gap in her front teeth is adorable, she looks good in everything she wears, and she gets off at the stop by the record store he’s always nagging himself to go to but still hasn’t, despite taking the same bus route for almost six years, now. Besides, he’s not gonna force himself on some random woman; he might not know her, but she’s a _person_ and he can respect her autonomy. “Soulmate magic is _never_ that straightforward, you know that.”

“He has a point,” Willie says, making a face when Alex elbows him. “Automatically knowing who your soulmate is almost as rare as your soulmate being yourself.”

“See.” Luke gestures at Willie, raising his eyebrows at Alex, before folding his arms across his chest. “Willie agrees with me.”

“Willie’s also works at a lab that studies soulmate magic, he doesn’t count.” Willie pinches Alex’s side but Alex ignores him. “You just gotta start taking a different bus, then, or introduce yourself to her. Then you’ll know and it’ll be fine and you’ll stop complaining about it!”

“I can’t introduce myself to her!” No introduction ends with the other person replying, _yeah they’re right over here_. He also isn’t going to start taking a different bus. Both would result in him _not_ being soulmates with the cute girl that sits four rows in front of him on the 8:26 and he wants to hold on to his delusions just a little longer. “That would be a disaster!”

“Dude, you’re impossible!” Alex says, and Luke rolls his eyes before slipping his headphones on and gathering up his stuff. If he debates this any longer, he’s going to be late for work and Covington will have his ass.

He listens to John Mayer as he walks to the bus stop ‘cause Caleb wants more of a “soft rock or like a blues-y vibe for this next show, you know, like Shawn Mendes” and it’s the closest thing he can think of that actually _is_ blues rock but might also be adjacent to Shawn Mendes. And even if “I Guess I Just Feel Like” wasn’t one of his strongest singles, the guitar solo at the end haunts Luke sometimes when he’s trying to fall asleep and keeps thinking about his parents (that and “Stop This Train” but he can’t think about that without crying, so forget he mentioned it). But, besides that, he needs to start coming up with melodies for their next staff meeting or he might end up unemployed.

“Edge of Desire” comes on as he reaches the stop, leans against the pole and stars running through the fingering against his jeans. There’s a nervous hitch in his stomach, he can’t stop thinking about his conversation with Alex, and he _knows_ she’s already on and sitting in her unofficial row and that he’ll brush past her when he makes his way to his own unofficial spot. Will today be one of the days she looks up from her notebook and smiles at him?

(Okay, maybe he lied before when he said she doesn’t know he exists. She just probably doesn’t _care_ that he exists.)

The bus pulls up and the doors open and he’s scanning his pass, pulling out one earbud so he can exchange greetings with the driver, when he turns into the aisle to truck to his seat and she looks up. Their eyes meet, and the song reaches the part that yanks on his heart strings every goddamn time he hears it:

> _I want you so bad I'll go back on the things I believe_
> 
> _There I just said it, I'm scared you'll forget about me_

He can’t help his sharp inhale and the way he’s staring at her like an absolute buffoon, but she’s smiling at him and he’s holding up the people lining up behind him, standing dumbly with his hand right next to his ear, holding his earbud, so he gathers the warm and antsy feeling in his chest and the way the corners of her eyes crinkle and forces himself to move. As he passes by, she reaches up and tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

There’s a small black heart drawn on the side of her wrist.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

He makes it to his seat as the bus starts moving again and sits with his bag on his lap for almost five whole minutes, staring at nothing and hearing nothing even as John Mayer keeps singing and singing. Both her smile and that tiny little heart blur in his vision and his head swims. That can’t have actually _happened_. Because if it did…

He flicks down the bracelet on his wrist and twists his arm around to stare at the writing that’s been there for the past few days: a tiny black heart.

“Patterson! Are you listening to me?”

He isn’t, not really, he’s stuck back on the bus when she tucked her hair behind her ear and flashed him that little heart. He’s been rubbing his thumb over it periodically since he arrived at the HGC—if he’d been the one to write it, the ink surely would’ve rubbed off by now. But he wasn’t. His _soulmate_ wrote it.

But Caleb doesn’t know that and if he did, he wouldn’t care.

“Yeah, sorry, just a second.” Luke shuffles the papers around in his folder and passes over a relatively clean sheet of notebook paper—no crumpling, no folds, no tears, freshly written that afternoon. Caleb snatches it from Luke’s hand and crosses to the piano to play out the basic melody he’s written. The main stage of the HGC is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Any other day and Luke’s heart would be in his throat, but that one moment on the bus that could arguably be chalked up to coincidence has him feeling totally calm.

Once he’s done playing, Caleb stills his hands on the keys and looks over at Luke, his face an unreadable mask.

A heartbeat passes, then a second. “Better than your last one, at least.”

That’s relatively high praise, coming from Caleb, but Luke rubs the knobby bone of his wrist where the heart is and can’t bring himself to be more than mildly pleased.

He doesn’t work on Saturdays or Sundays.

The weekend is reserved for the big, blow out performances and everyone who isn’t dancing, playing, or helping with the set up is banished so there’s enough room for how huge it’s going to get. Luke normally spends the weekends he isn’t needed hanging with Alex and Willie—though he knows sometimes he’s intruding, he just can’t help himself—or Reggie, or debating making the drive to his parents’ house in Monterey and then pigging out on pizza and beer on his couch, instead. This weekend, though, he’s feeling good and wants it to last as long as possible, so he walks himself to the bus stop and tries not to be disappointed when he doesn’t see her as he gets on—though he knows he’s two hours later than he normally is—and settles in for the ride to the record shop he’s been lusting over.

He shouldn’t, he knows, but he pulls a pen out of his bag and uncaps it, runs the tip of it over the back of his hand. Not hard enough to leave a mark—he’s too scared for that. Or, too anticipatory. What if it was just a coincidence? What if she isn’t actually his soulmate?

He really shouldn’t be this nervous over someone he’s never even talked to, over someone he doesn’t even _know_ , but it doesn’t feel like that. When he looks at her, something in his chest settles and its like slipping into sweater he’s had for years. Like if he sat down next to her and just started rambling, he wouldn’t have to worry about her getting it, she just would. Besides, they’ve had _some_ moments, even if they’re miniscule. Her seat is sideways facing and when something ridiculous happens, as it often does, she’ll glance over at him with wide eyes and they’ll exchange frantic or embarrassed looks. Sometimes she looks up and smiles at him as he passes by, or she’ll be playing music with big-ass headphones on and he’ll catch the briefest sound of it as he scoots past (he’s more pleased than he should be whenever he knows the song she’s listening to) and, once, he accidentally dropped one of his notebooks in her lap ‘cause he was running late and she handed it back to him, her eyes alight with something he wanted to be amusement when she took in his sheepish, grateful smile (he’d been on the phone or he would’ve said thanks. At least, that’s what he tells himself—his words don’t exactly match typical replies to “thanks”).

And now the heart.

_Fuck_.

He takes the plunge and draws a single line down the back of his hand. Then a bisecting line. And, shit _why not?_ , two smaller lines in an X through the center. Distinct enough that he’ll recognize it if he sees it, right? Fuck, maybe it’s too much? Too obvious?

He can hear what Alex would say if he were here: _god, Luke, are you trying to make her uncomfortable?_

He’s about to pull out the hand-sanitizer from the depth of his backpack and scrub it away when the skin on the back of his hand tingles as it always does when she writes on her end. Hastily, he folds down the top of his bag and stares at his hand. Purple ink—his is black—in a tiny circle appears around the intersection. Then, down on his wrist this time, a question mark followed by a _cute tho_.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

They’ve never done this before, why is she—

She’d seen his wrist that day, too. ‘Cause of his headphones.

_Fuck_.

He chucks his pen to the bottom of his bag, where he hopes it will somehow find itself transported into the deepest depths of hell, so he doesn’t make things worse, and traces the purple lines she drew until the bus pulls up at the stop for the record shop. Frustrated with himself, he slings the straps of his bag over his shoulders and gives the bus driver a hurried thanks as he thunders down the steps and onto the sidewalk. The record shop is two blocks away, he has to get his heart to stop racing before then. He pulls out his headphones and shuffles through his songs until “Supermassive Black Hole” comes on ’cause it’s a good song to yell to, even if he’s walking down a very public street and has too much pride to be one of those people that gets stared at for singing randomly. By the time he reaches the store he’s feeling just a little calmer.

There’s a little bell over the door that trills when he pushes it open and whatever was left of his nerves melts away as he walks inside. Rose’s Records is a music geek’s paradise.

Plastered on the walls is a collage of posters, overlapping one another and creating a multicolored timeline of music history. Tables stacked with wooden crates stuffed with CDs fill the immediate middle of the room. Further back the contents of the crates transition to record sleeves and in the far back, he can see doors to listening and recording booths. In the farther back corner is a door marked “LESSONS” with a star-shaped neon-light hung around the sign, currently turned off. There are a few people browsing, one employee ringing someone up at the counter in that same back corner, but they’ve all either got headphones in or are wandering around quietly. The storefront, made up entirely of windows, lets in the morning light and the atmosphere inside is sunny and warm.

Immediately, he kicks himself for never coming here sooner.

He meanders his way between crates and starts flipping through CDs. They’re sorted alphabetically by artist and he peruses his way through the Gs before she walks up to him. The girl from the bus, the girl he hopes is his soulmate. Fuck. _Fuck._ She _works_ here. She’s wearing blue jeans and a white shirt knotted in the front, “LUNGS” written across the chest with a graphic of some branches drawn underneath. It fits her, Florence + the Machine, and it makes his nerves return in one hot wave as he takes her in, here in this spot of heaven he’s found. There’s a name tag that reads “Sammy” pinned to her shirt.

“Marco” by binki starts playing when she catches his eye, and the lyrics mirror his thoughts exactly.

> _Do you give a fuck about me?_
> 
> _They say that love is blind, let's see_
> 
> _You're IG got me weak in the knees_
> 
> _I saw you once in person like jeez_

She says something but his headphones are still in so he can’t hear her—thank _god_ ‘cause it doesn’t look like it matched his words—but this is a retail store, so he can make a good guess, even if he’s a little caught up in staring at her standing so close to him. She’s _beautiful_ , her hair loose and curling around her shoulders, mouth shiny with chapstick, delicate necklaces strung around her neck. He can feel his lips part—

_Don’t think about her neck_.

Yanking out his earbuds and snapping his mouth shut, he says, smiling a little, “Hey, do you guys have any Two Door Cinema Club records?”

He doesn’t need any Two Door Cinema Club records. On Spotify, he has all their songs that he likes saved, he’s got some CDs from high school with plenty of their stuff burned on them, he’s pirated all the guitar tabs he wants from them—he doesn’t even _own_ a record player—but it was one of the first posters he saw as he stepped inside and she’s just—right there. In front of him. Smiling a smile that gets his heart racing a little bit because of the amused, surprised curl in one corner. Opening her mouth to reply. Saying—

Fuck, his stomach flips.

“Yeah, they’re right over here.”

_Yeah, they’re right over here_.

YEAH. THEY’RE. RIGHT. OVER. HERE.

His eyes must look like saucers, but he manages not to gape too hard at her, even as she chuckles and turns around to lead him toward the records section. As he follows, he wipes his suddenly sweaty palms against his jeans and tries to calm down, again. Of course, the universe would hit him with that little interaction they had on the bus _and_ them meeting, officially, in the same day. Bastard always likes to fuck with him.

“Here we are,” she says, her voice a little raspy and low, which he likes immensely. He’d regret not talking to her sooner, except for the fact that he can’t imagine a situation that would work out with his words like this one does. Placing a hand on the crate she’s standing next to, she turns to him and tilts her head a little, a half grin on her face. “Want help making a selection?”

He wets his lips. “Yeah, sure, if you don’t mind.”

“It’d be my pleasure.” As she turns to the crate, he tells himself he just imagined the way her gaze lingers on him longer than it normally would between employee and customer, and tries not to read too much into it. She starts flipping through covers. “I’ve been wanting to say hi for a while, anyways. This is just a good excuse to keep talking.”

There’s a moment where he’s sure she says something else, but he doesn’t hear it ‘cause his brain is short circuiting.

She settles on _Beacons_ , pulling it out and resting it on top of the other records in the crate, and looks over at him again. “I’m Julie, by the way.”

Dumbly, instead of introducing himself back, he points at her name tag. “I didn’t realize ‘Julie’ and ‘Sammy’ were spelled the same way.”

Julie—purportedly—scrunches her eyebrows together and _fuck_ , he’s fucked up _already_ —but then she glances down at her badge and smiles sheepishly at him. “Right, um—you ever seen ‘Superstore?’”

“Oh my god! It’s the Amy thing!” He says, which makes her smile widen as she nods, and his stomach flips again. “Fuck, I should’ve guessed.”

She shrugs it off and passes the record over to him. “Don’t worry about it…”

“Luke,” he says quickly and is rewarded with another smile. “Luke Patterson.”

As he tucks the record under his arm, she holds her hand out to him. A beat passes as he studies her eyes—they’re brown and gorgeous—then the corner of his mouth tilts up and he puts his hand in hers. Her skin is soft where it isn’t calloused and he swipes his thumb across her first knuckle once before he realizes what he’s doing and stops himself. There’s a moment where he thinks she might mention it—the drawing—because of all this hand action that’s happening, he can see _something_ spark in her eyes, _something_ travel across her face, but then it’s gone, tucked away behind the friendly smiles she’s been giving him.

“Alright, Luke Patterson,” she drops his hand and nods toward the register. “Wanna buy that, or what?”

He doesn’t, ‘cause he doesn’t have a record player, which he sheepishly admits to her in the same tone she admitted wanting to talk to him, and she wanders off to help a pair of customers who just walked in as he replaces the record in the crate and ambles back over to the CDs. Eventually, he picks a few out ( _Wasteland, Baby!—_ which he, unfortunately, hasn’t gotten yet—and another copy of _channel orange_ —this one is for Reggie’s car, okay? Reggie doesn’t have an aux or any other way to connect his phone to the stereo and if Luke has to listen to any more of The Avett Brothers he’s going to lose his goddamn mind) and meets her at the counter in the back.

“Good choices,” she says as she slips them into a paper bag. “Though I’m sad _Beacons_ didn’t make the cut.”

_Shit_ , he sucks in a hurried breath, but her eyes are teasing, so he blows it back out in a scoff and tries for something a little flirtier. “Gotta have a reason to come back.”

For a moment, they consider one another—him nervously and her, he can’t read her, yet—but one corner of her mouth lifts and he doesn’t think it’s a smile to hide behind, this time.

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, and slides the receipt across the counter for him to sign. She’s tapping a few things on the register as he does so, so he takes the chance and writes his Instagram handle under the signature line. Maybe that’ll get him somewhere. They swap, the receipt for the bag, and Luke keeps himself from watching her as she looks it over, pulling out his phone to pretend to check a notification.

“See you Monday, Julie,” he says, liking the way her name feels in his mouth, and peeks up at her as he backs away. That half-smile is there again—he thinks it’s her _amused_ smile and files it away as such—and she shakes her head.

“Sure, Patterson.”

He tries not to refresh Instagram whenever he has a spare moment. It’s a more or less successful plan but it doesn’t make waiting the week it takes her to message him any easier.

Especially after she stops showing up for the 8:26.

But there it is, Sunday night,

> **Direct Message from _julie_** ✨:
> 
> @ _itsjulie_ : hey
> 
> _@itsjulie_ : see u tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi welcome to ur slow indoctrination into my taste in music via all of the jatp characters! hope u have a good time 
> 
> i didn't intend for this to be multichap but then the date for jatp week came up and it wasn't done yet so! now its multichap. hope ur cool w that
> 
> anyways come scream w me on [tumblr](https://juulies.tumblr.com)!


End file.
